


death of

by rhysgore



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dehumanization, Gen, Monster Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Verbal Abuse, Whump, author makes questionable style choices in the name of aesthetics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysgore/pseuds/rhysgore
Summary: there's one thing that's still important to him





	

**Author's Note:**

> vent fic, mostly. sorry

It’s curious how much of him is tied to something so small.

 

There are few comforts to be had for Gabriel. His life has become cyclical, moving between the boredom of waiting for them to decide he’s useful, the painful tearing of his body as it morphs into the form that suits the mission best, the cold, callous indifference of rending apart whomever they send him after, and back. He waits. They feed chemicals into his veins and take pictures when eyes sprout on the inside of his forearms, and send him back to his room. He waits in the dark, and looks at the gold on his finger.

 

On his better days, he remembers all of it, the good times and the bad. Remembers being married, remembers his husband, remembers loving and being loved, hating and being hated. The pang of loneliness when he realizes he’s a widow, now- Jack’s dead, isn’t he? Jack’s dead, and some days all he has to remember him by is the ring.

 

On his worse days, when his head is cloudy with drugs and pain and he’s knee-deep in the viscera of people he’s shredded, he can barely remember a thing about who he was. He was someone important, right? He must’ve been. When he looks at his hand, he feels his head burn, something threatening to rise out of the murky fog that’s been suppressing his thoughts.

 

_ it hurts, hurtsHURTShurts-  _

 

And when the lucidity returns, he’s terrified. Can’t let them take the last bit of his humanity away. Can’t forget can’t forget  _ can’t _

 

can’t

 

...

 

He lets it interfere. The mission is a hit, an older man, likely a politician. They don’t tell him, most of the time. He doesn’t need to know what they are to kill them.

 

The man is aging, round in the waist, hair silver, thick mustache bristling, but his secretary- bodyguard- friend- it doesn’t matter who he is as he begs for the man's life, but he’s beautiful and tall and  _ blonde,  _ and he looks- 

 

_ hurts to look at him _

 

-so  _ afraid,  _ and Gabriel balks when he sees tears in his eyes, turns tail and runs, smokes out as quickly as he can.

 

When they come to extract him, he’s sitting in a dark corner of an abandoned building, knees pulled up to his chest, wheezing, twisting the ring on his finger. They try to get him to come with them quietly, the man at the forefront of the group promising to help make him feel better. He knows this game. He knows this man. Not a friend, not even an ally- a handler. Speaking quietly, cautiously, trying to drag Gabriel back into his cage.

 

Gabriel doesn’t know what he does when his world slips. It feels like just a split second he’s out, but when everything fades back in, he’s got a heart in his hand. He doesn’t know where it came from, but it’s definitely a human heart. Looking at it, he tilts his head.

 

The man in front of him, the handler, collapses, body twitching. A red puddle spreads out from underneath him. Gaze passing between the organ and the fresh corpse, Gabriel connects point a and point b in his head.

 

The rest of them stare at him. Openmouthed.

 

“He- did he-”

 

“- right through his chest-”

 

_ “Monster.”  _ He flinches back from their stares, full of hatred and disgust, so open and raw.

 

Then, like sharks catching the scent of fresh blood, they descend.

 

He’s not sure exactly what he does. He knows he must have killed a few of them, but there are- there are so  _ many. _ Were there always this many people? He’s on the ground and he feels his arm shatter under someone’s steel boot and immediately repair itself, only to shatter again, electricity pulsing through his body as they taze him over and over, the sound of gunshots, someone unloading their entire clip into his prone form.

 

A scream rips its way out of his mouth as the pain hits him all at once, body regenerating just enough to keep him alive as they tear it apart, letting them brutalize him 

 

over and over and

 

over and  _ over-  _

 

memories of orientation flitting through his head as someone pries his teeth out with a knife, “you’re not a  _ person  _ anymore”

 

-and  _ over  _ until he can’t think of anything but the red, angry, throbbing sensation in every part of him. But he still sees it when they force his arm out, force his clenched fist open, and they’re-

 

_ “No,” _ he croaks, gurgling on the blood in his mouth, sounds distorted by his missing teeth and cut tongue, “no, you  _ can’t, _ not that, not  _ that,  _ please, no,  _ no, _ I need it, no- no-  _ NO-”  _ pleading hysterically, he’s not too proud to beg, not for this, but they laugh, they  _ laugh- _

 

_ “aw, he thinks he’s people” “cute” “keep your hand out you fucking piece of shit you fucking deserve this you worthless-” _

 

They break every one of his fingers. They rip his ring off. One of them pockets it, laughing in his face as he cries, sobs wracking his body, making his shoulders shake, making his broken ribs stab into his lungs. He chokes on his own blood as they collapse and reinflate. He crawls at their feet, retching up bile, clawing at his own flesh as he mutates in accordance with his unchecked emotions, teeth bursting through the skin of his gums and cheeks alike. His body feels like it’s on fire, and they’ve 

 

_ taken  _

 

it they took it they stole the last thing that made him human he’s nothing now he’s not a body he’s not a person he’s nothing he’s a shell a husk he’s nothing NOTHING there’s  _ nothing _ left nothing left of him, nothing left of the beautiful boy he remembers every time he sees it- he needed- he needed to remember- he needs to remember-

 

It’s slipping from him, like water through his fingers. The pain blasts through his being, and nothing can stand against it. Not a sound, not a touch, not-

 

ripping at his own face, tearing himself  _ apart, _

 

And then, blackness.

 

And when he wakes, his mind is blank and sweet and moldable again.


End file.
